


in their glens on starry nights

by AngGriffen



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Playoff BJs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngGriffen/pseuds/AngGriffen
Summary: "You don't need to do anything," Dylan says, heart in his throat. He doesn't see Zach enough anymore to get used to feeling like this. He leans down, one hand on the armrest beside Zach's head. "I wasn't trying to chirp you. I just want to--" He's not sure what he wants. To take care of Zach? Jesus.





	in their glens on starry nights

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, arising after a decade to write something I speed wrote in under 24 hours in a magical thinking desperation move.
> 
> I've been told it's the done thing to attempt to appease the hockey gods before elimination games by placating them with pornography. I've also been told Dylan Larkin was at Nationwide for Game 3. This is about that.
> 
> (Edit: Welp. That didn't work. Oh well, maybe this will console you in your time of need.)

"Sorry I'm not really being a great host," Zach mumbles. He shoves his fork back into the Tupperware he'd pulled from the fridge five minutes earlier.

Dylan tries not to laugh. He fails. 

"What?" Zach says. He hadn't even warmed the food up. He just came out of the bathroom still a little damp from his shower, pulled the container out of the fridge, sat down next to Dylan on the couch, and started inhaling it. If Dylan hadn't been there before himself, he -- well, he still probably wouldn't be grossed out, but he'd be a lot closer to it.

Dylan kicks his feet up on the coffee table, ignoring the flicker of annoyance on Zach's face. "You're not my  _ host _ . Jesus, Z." He takes a sip of his beer. "I've seen you after games before. If I had expectations about the quality of service, I'd have gone back to Dublin for the night."

"You're a guest in my home," Zach replies around a mouthful of food, then kicks one foot out to push tiredly at Dylan's calf. "Feet off the furniture, asshole."

"I thought I was supposed to be the guest," Dylan replies, mock-offended, and digs his heels in to keep them where they are.

Zach's toes curl back and forth against Dylan's leg for a moment before he scoots a little closer, shifting his angle on the couch, and rests both of his own feet on top of Dylan's leg. He sinks a little into the couch. "Ugh, you're the worst."

"I'm the best." There isn't really a good place to set his beer down without disrupting the whole leg situation, so he reaches down with his one free hand to gently pull at the leg of Zach's sweatpants. "Come on."

Zach grumbles. He also shifts further sideways on the couch, bringing his feet to rest across Dylan's thighs instead, so Dylan will count it as a win.

"I came all the way down here to  _ Columbus _ to watch you in the playoffs, and I'm the worst?" Dylan asks. He lets his left hand gently touch Zach's ankle. Zach's foot twitches slightly.

Zach stops shoving food in his face long enough to gesture at Dylan with his fork. "You came down to see McAvoy too, bro. Got to see a pretty good hockey game. Not like it was some great hardship."

"I can go to the hotel," Dylan says, "bother McAvoy instead, if you want."

Zach struggles for a moment against a smile before it breaks through. It's so good. God, Dylan's missed this.

"Hey, can't help what you're into," Zach says, expression going deadpan again. "Can't stop you if you'd rather be elsewhere."

"I wouldn't," Dylan answers on automatic, sincere against his better judgment. 

He tightens his grip on Zach's ankle and tries to be chill. It's not like Zach doesn't know; they've talked about this stuff before. It's just always a little terrifying to be genuine about shit again when he hasn't seen Zach in person in a while. 

(It's always a little terrifying no matter what, really.)

Dylan looks down at his hand on Zach's leg, and pushes his fingers beneath the hem of Zach's sweatpants. His fingertips brush against the skin of Zach's calf. 

He hears Zach inhale sharply, but doesn't look up.

"I'm, uh--" Zach begins. 

Dylan drops his feet from the coffee table so he can set his beer down. He pulls Zach's feet further up into his lap. He's not really a foot guy, but he could do a foot massage thing, probably. Maybe. Would Zach like that? He should know if Zach would like that.

"I'm already about half-asleep," Zach admits, finally finishing his thought, but when Dylan looks back over at Zach, the mostly-empty Tupperware is sitting on the coffee table and Zach's stretched out, cat-like, on the couch, his head thrown back against the armrest. His eyes are wide open; his mouth is a little wet. Fuck.

"I told you. My expectations here are pretty low." It's not a lie, but it's also not  _ not _ a lie.

"That's a brave thing to say when my feet are so close to your junk," Zach answers. He's not smiling, but he's not  _ not _ smiling.

"Wow," Dylan says and tightens his grip on Zach's legs. "I'm just saying I know you've got a busted hand."

Zach flexes his feet and digs his heel into Dylan's thigh a little bit.  _ God _ . "Right hand's fine," Zach says. He digs his heel in a little harder. "You don't have to make excuses if you want to do foot stuff."  _ Now _ he's smiling.

"Gross," Dylan says, "Not what I was saying." He pushes the hem of Zach's sweats halfway up his calf, touching skin just to touch.

It's not enough.

Dylan pushes Zach's feet away just enough he can slide out from under them to stand up. He puts one knee on the couch cushion next to Zach's hip and leans down. 

Zach blinks up at him for a moment. "I really am tired," he says, apologetically.

"You don't need to do anything," Dylan says, heart in his throat. He doesn't see Zach enough anymore to get used to feeling like this. He leans down, one hand on the armrest beside Zach's head. "I wasn't trying to chirp you. I just want to--" He's not sure what he wants. To take care of Zach? Jesus.

Zach stops him before he spills his feelings all over the place, grabbing at Dylan's hair with his good hand. He pulls Dylan down and meets his mouth halfway, and -- fuck.  _ Fuck. _ Dylan's missed this. Zach's bottom lip is as soft as he remembers, and Dylan surges forward, trying to get in as much kissing as possible in their limited amount of time.

He tastes a little salty from whatever he drank to rehydrate, and a little like his function-not-flavor post-game meal, and Dylan doesn't care. He wants to put his hands everywhere. He wants to put his  _ mouth _ everywhere. He settles for touching Zach's face, gently cupping his jaw as he presses his tongue to Zach's.

Zach wasn't kidding about being tired; his mouth moves slowly against Dylan's, almost dreamlike, and that's good too. Everything Zach does is good, from the softness of his mouth to his too-tight grip on Dylan's hair. 

Dylan swings his leg over Zach's hips and climbs onto the couch with him, one knee shoved in the cramped space between Zach's body and the back of the couch, and the other precariously balanced at the edge. The couch isn't really big enough for this but that's never really stopped Dylan before.

It's difficult to stop kissing long enough to talk, but he has to, so he does, mostly. Dylan pulls his mouth from Zach's long enough to press his lips to Zach's jaw, his cheek, the patch of skin by his ear. Zach's pitiful attempt at a playoff beard is surprisingly soft.

"Are you awake enough to still get it up?" Dylan asks before meaningfully shifting his weight to grind down a little.

Zach's grip on Dylan's hair loosens and his head tilts back with soft breaths that are definitely laughter. Dylan kisses his chin; he can't not.

"I'm tired, not  _ dead, _ " Zach answers.

"Good." Dylan presses another kiss to Zach's chin before he settles more of his weight on Zach. 

Zach's hand drops to skim along Dylan's side, over his shirt, from hip to armpit and back, and Dylan shivers with it. He rolls his hips down against Zach's and gets a responding shift of Zach's weight beneath him in return, and Dylan has to catch Zach's mouth with his own again.

This time it's wetter, sloppier. Zach's plush mouth moving against his is a counterpoint to the slow roll of Zach's hips beneath him, the maddening feel of Zach's hand on his back, his side, his chest.

Dylan considers that he may have miscalculated. What he wanted was Zach, splayed out beneath him, naked and gasping, panting,  _ coming _ , and he forgot how distracting even a quarter of that would be. Zach isn't hard yet (he's getting there), but Dylan is and that wasn't the  _ point _ of this.

He puts both palms on Zach's chest and pushes himself back, away from Zach's mouth, and settles his weight back against Zach's thighs. 

Zach blinks up at him. "Hey," he says, bemused. He looks good, even with the unfortunate moustache and his brow furrowed. Dylan can't believe he'd thought Zach's mouth looked good  _ before _ . 

"You're distracting me," Dylan says before he shoves his hands under the hem of Zach's tee-shirt.

"Whoa." Zach squirms a little, and both his hands come to catch Dylan's wrists. "Hey, we're. On the couch." He sounds a little dazed. Dylan curls his fingers against the skin of Zach's stomach.

"Sure are."

Zach breathes out a low groan and stretches a little beneath Dylan before he says, "Shouldn't do this on the couch."

Dylan pulls one hand from Zach's grip and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Zach's sweatpants. "I don't see why not."

"I'm not gonna get my dick out in the living room. Brad could just wake up and walk out here whenever." Zach shoves a little at Dylan's arm with his bad hand.

And the thing is that Dylan doesn't hate the thought of it. The thought of someone -- someone safe -- seeing him with Zach is weirdly thrilling. But he accepts that Zach's brother is probably a bad choice for 'someone safe' in this context. 

"Sure," Dylan says, instead. "We can get you naked in private instead."

Zach lets go of Dylan's arms to shove at his stomach a little instead. "You're horrible," he says, smiling. "Get off me."

Dylan's fingers are still tucked into the waistband of Zach's pants and he rubs his knuckles against the soft hair low on Zach's abdomen. "Sure," he agrees. "In a sec." He can see the starting swell of Zach's cock, half-hard, through the two layers of fabric, and drops his other hand to touch there, rubbing at him through his pants.

The twitch of Zach's cock and Zach's sharp intake of breath come only seconds before Zach sits up. He nearly cracks his head into Dylan's in the process. "Come on. Move," Zach says, as his arms come up around Dylan to try to tip him over and off his lap. 

"Okay. Okay." Dylan reluctantly peels himself off Zach's lap, putting one shaky foot on the ground after the other. Zach's hair is damp and mussed, his face flushed, his old tee-shirt just small enough on him that there's a whole gun show situation threatening there. And Dylan gets to have that. Sometimes, at least. Which is better than nothing at all.

He helps Zach up from the couch and they stumble to the bedroom. Zach's hand keeps coming to the small of Dylan's back, to his waist, his hip, and it's distracting. Dylan's not sure how he's supposed to make it all the way to the bedroom like this, but together they somehow manage.

Dylan pushes Zach toward the bed while he shuts the door behind them, and when he turns back around, Zach has the covers pulled back and he's is sitting there on the near side of the bed, waiting in the dim light. Dylan thought he'd get Zach naked and look his fill, but that's not what he wants anymore. 

"Come on," Dylan says, climbing up on the bed with Zach. "Lie down." He presses a kiss to Zach's jaw again. "Let me--"

Zach's mouth meets Dylan's, cutting Dylan off again. His arms come around Dylan's shoulders, and when Zach lies back in the bed, he brings Dylan with him. He doesn't let Dylan go once they're horizontal, but just tucks him in tight against his side. Zach is so warm and Dylan doesn't want to stop, so he doesn't. 

Dylan presses his hand against Zach's stomach and then slides it down, beneath his sweats and his boxers, to finally  _ touch _ . Zach breathes out something like a groan against Dylan's mouth.

"That's it," Dylan says. He curls his hand loosely around Zach's cock, stroking him gently to full hardness. The angle is a little awkward on his wrist and he doesn't care. "I just wanna make you feel good."

Dylan feels like a dumbass about it, saying something that was so -- the way that was -- until Zach breathes out a quiet "you do" against his mouth. Zach's arm tightens around Dylan's shoulders, and their kiss deepens again. 

His mind races with what he wants to do; he wants to get Zach's pants down and get some lube so he can really make him feel good. He wants to get one of Zach's thighs between his own to give him something to grind down against. He wants to slide down the bed and take Zach's cock in his mouth, lip at the head, tongue at the slit, until Zach is flushed and squirming and -- happy.

But Zach has Dylan clutched tight to him, and Dylan doesn't want to pull away from that. He tightens his hand around Zach's cock and lets Zach fuck up into his grip. It's a little too dry, but that doesn't seem to stop Zach, and Dylan isn't sure he can stop sucking on Zach's bottom lip long enough to suggest they find the lube.

Dylan's own hips roll against Zach's hip, and his jeans are tight enough that the situation is becoming uncomfortable, but not enough to  _ stop _ .

Zach whines a little in the back of his throat, and reaches down with his bad hand to try to push down his sweatpants. Dylan pulls his hand out from Zach's pants to help, which earns him another barely-audible needy noise, and god, he's so  _ hard. _

They have to break their kiss for a moment when Zach lifts his hips to get his pants and underwear down, and Dylan takes the opportunity to blurt out, "Let me suck you." He can actually see Zach's cock twitch at that.

"Jesus," Zach says. His arm tightens around Dylan's shoulders again. "You don't--" Zach cuts himself off to nibble at Dylan's jawline. Dylan wraps his hand back around Zach's cock, spreading the pre-come along his shaft, slicking the way a little better than it had been, although still not enough in Dylan's opinion.

"I'm probably gonna pass out after this," is what Zach seems to finally settle on. He mumbles the words against the skin right next to Dylan's mouth.

"That's fine," Dylan says. "I told you, I just want to make you fe--"

"I'd feel bad," Zach cuts him off. "If you did and I didn--"

Dylan crushes his mouth back to Zach's. He sucks softly at Zach's lip, and catches it with his teeth and lets Zach fuck his fist. He throws a leg over Zach's thighs and lets the movement of Zach's hips grind his thigh against the ridge of Dylan's dick through his jeans.

He thinks about it though, Zach's hips rolling to fuck his mouth, and this time it's Dylan's turn to make an embarrassing noise about it.

Zach's hips stutter, and their kiss grows suddenly sharper on his end. Dylan pulls back just enough to mumble "close?" against Zach's mouth, and Zach says "please" and crushes Dylan back to him before he comes, hitting Dylan's sweatshirt square on. Dylan can't even bring himself to be upset about it because he's too busy looking at the expression on Zach's face, head tilted back and mouth slack with it. 

It's not like Dylan doesn't still need to come, but seeing that settles something in him for a moment.

Zach relaxes a little, his grip on Dylan's shoulders slipping. He wasn't kidding about being halfway to passed out. He tucks an arm behind his head and watches Dylan with heavy-lidded eyes and the ghost of a smile when Dylan pushes himself up a little on his knees, unzips his jeans, and gets his hand around his own dick.

"Jesus, Z," Dylan pants, his head falling forward, hunched over Zach's body. "You look so fucking good."

Zach's hand comes up to brush fingertips over Dylan's cheekbone, down to his mouth, and Dylan should be embarrassed about it when his hips stutter and he comes almost immediately. He's not. 

Zach blinks at him fondly, then looks down at his own tee-shirt, now bearing a growing stain from Dylan's jizz. "Ugh," Zach says, faintly annoyed, but trying to blink back sleep. 

"I got it," Dylan says, and sets about peeling off their shirts and cleaning them both up.

He's leaning over to grab some tissues from the nightstand when Zach mumbles, "wish you could stay." 

"Yeah," Dylan croaks. He has to be in Europe in four days and hopefully both of them will be busy until at least the end of May. He swallows. "I'm here tonight, though."

Zach's arm comes back around Dylan's shoulders, pulling him back in close. "Yeah," Zach says. "Yeah, you are."


End file.
